


and all those love lines taking shape

by fruitwhirl



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/M, and it won’t interfere with the reading experience, i lvoe amy santiago with all of my heart, this is just a TOTAL fluff piece okay, this is just a collection of vignettes, you can read each chapter independent of each other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-23 13:24:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13788666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fruitwhirl/pseuds/fruitwhirl
Summary: a love letter to amy santiago, through the eyes of jake peralta.





	1. eyebrows

**Author's Note:**

> this is literally a total fluff piece. there is no plot. also i'm posting this in pieces (i have a few chapters done already), but there is a definite end. there should be eleven parts unless something changes wildly. 
> 
> title from "little light" by lewis watson.

_“So, how did you know she was the one?”_

_“I'd love to answer that. Um, you know, just whenever I look at her face and the attached physique."_

  

* * *

 

He learns Amy through her eyebrows—really, it’s a little silly how articulate two thick lines of short, dark hairs that serve to frame the face can be, how he can discern her mood simply by their slope and position at the base of her forehead.

During his third or fourth case with her, an investigation into a money-laundering ring, he deliberately takes note of her micro-expressions. Fueled solely by black coffee, they work late into the night multiple times over the course of two weeks, and during particularly slow shifts, he can glance up to see her glaring down at a few pieces of the file they have on the Bonanzos, her brows furrowed together in frustration or concentration; he can’t quite tell between the hours of two and three in the morning. Later, when he successfully questions a suspect (who finds himself giving up the names of one of his associates), he returns to the viewing room to see her right brow raised approvingly, nearly disappearing underneath her choppy bangs. And then, following the arrest the organizers of the ring, it’s how he makes a perhaps immature quip about the situation, and in response, she lifts her brows in tandem with the affected disdainful roll of her eyes.

And five years after, it’s the way her eyebrows shimmy suggestively with four shots of something wicked coursing through their veins, coaxing him to follow her into her bedroom.

A subtle crease that stems from intense concentration, her pencil tap-tapping simple rhythms into the black and white boxes of her crossword. Sometimes, he’ll reach over and smooth the offending brow over with the pad of his thumb, and she’ll glance up, ask _what was that for?_ His mouth curves into the smallest of smiles, and it’s one of these moments that solidifies the need for the small, velvet box that is buried in the back of his rumpled sock drawer (which, thankfully, she avoids on principle, claims it smells distinctly of ranch and jalapenos, which isn’t a wholly unfair judgement).

A disbelieving lilt when he mentions going on a double date with Rosa and her steady girlfriend (really, it was the snarky brunette who suggested it, quietly and without much fanfare in the evidence locker—“Brit’s really been wanting to meet you guys”), and then an ecstatic bounce as she starts to flit about the apartment, trying to hunt down all of the date ideas she wrote down on slips of paper and tucked away in the corners of their shared living space.

(A concerned furrow he can picture forming while in his tiny jail cell, a small headphone bud tucked into his ear. Even though she tries to tamp it down, he recognizes the panic lacing her words, and he wonders idly if she can parse out the fear he’s trying to mask.)

And then, early in the morning, just as the pale yellow sun peeks through the gaps of their venetian blinds and falls on her form in a delicate pattern of light—he cherishes these precious minutes when he wakes before her (sometimes from nightmares, sometimes because he drifted off during a particularly predictable episode of _Property Brothers)._ Often, he finds himself pressing his lips soft against the skin just above her eyebrow for a few seconds, thanking whoever the hell’s out there for her, before pulling back as she unconsciously burrows a little bit further into his arms.


	2. mouth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry, i had posted this before, but i had to change something so i deleted the chapter. enjoy! thanks molls (@captamysantiago on tumblr) for reading through this for me!

Amy has a nasty habit of chewing at the end of her pens.

Not the elegant set of course—ideal for those who write with their left hand as the ink is quick-drying—that one of her brothers gifted her after she made detective at the 9-9 (Jake buys another pack for her birthday once the originals dry out). Instead, it’s the box of cheap ballpoint pens she keeps in her bottom desk drawer when she’s working on a difficult case, next to the carton of cigarettes she’s stashed away for the same reason. Absentmindedly, she’ll twirl one of the pens between her fingers while poring over blood-drenched photos from a crime scene, or nibble at the cap as she combs through witness statements. Sometimes, she inadvertently flips the instrument, and when the tip touches against her lips, she’ll pull away just for black or blue to ink her cupid’s bow. Depending on how late it is, her level of frustration varies, and often he’ll just pass by and press a kiss into her hair as she groans her dissent, sips at the bitter but potent coffee he places by her keyboard.

(Frankly, he finds it adorable.)

He also thinks that with all the coffee she drinks and lipstick she wears (barely noticeable), she’d leave at least the faintest trace of nude pink on the edges of her mugs and at the rim of her paper cups. Instead, either the brand she buys is far superior to any other makeup-wearing person he knows, or she wipes her lipstick off her drinkware after every single sip. And for the first half-decade of knowing her, Jake isn’t sure which possibility is more likely.

It’s not until they’re three drinks into a first date that he realizes it’s the latter. Assertive as always—really, he should’ve expected this—Amy’s got him pressed up against his front door, lips hot on his jaw, on the pulse point of his neck.  He’s working on the tie of her dress when she pulls away for a moment, and he pauses in his own actions, glancing down to see her now furrowed features and small frown. Briefly, his mind screams at him _holy shit she’s regretting this_ , but it stops when she just smiles softly, wiping her thumb against the skin of his jawline.

“Lipstick,” she whispers as an explanation. His eyes drift to her lips where the scarlet has smudged tremendously, and he smirks. To be clear, he definitely would have said something smart and witty back, but then her hands slide into his hair and her mouth is on his and it’s open and wet and all coherent thoughts very quickly leave his mind.

It’s a little over a week later, after the danger of Jake losing his job over their nascent relationship has passed, and he’s doing something he never thought he would: wandering through the “Language & Literature” wing of the Brooklyn Public Library. Well, perhaps it’s more apt to say that he’s deliberately combing through the stacks, searching in vain for his girlfriend.

Upon hearing his offhand comment that he didn’t remember the last time he read a book as they lounged on her sofa, she extricated herself from underneath his arm and exclaimed that she had the perfect novel for him. Amy insisted on taking just a quick jaunt to the library, which she claims is only a few blocks away from her apartment, and in all reality, it doesn’t take much convincing for him to follow her as she bounds out the door and down the ten stone steps to the street.

Now, however, he’s lost her. Once they arrived on the first floor, she made a beeline for the fiction section, and he soon couldn’t find her among the rows and rows of shelves. After circling the entire wing at least five times, he’s considering asking the front desk if they can help in his quest to find his missing girlfriend, when he quite literally barrels into her, the hard edge of something (a book, he thinks) cutting into his ribs like a sucker-punch and there’s a clatter as the object falls to the floor.

As they both crouch to pick up the book, he glances up to see not the panicked expression he expects, but her lips pressed together in a quivering line, obviously suppressing laughter. They stand, her tucking the novel into the crook of her elbow as she speaks with her other hand gesticulating wildly.

“I’ve been looking for you!” Her lips quirk up in a smile as she gestures towards the book in her hand—its cover with a blue umbrella at the focal point. “I know the last book you read was _Cujo,_ so I thought you might like this one.” Amy starts to describe the novel, which is essentially a detective story where a retired cop has to track down a serial killer. And it sounds interesting, it really does—but while he tries to pay attention to what she’s saying, he finds it practically impossible.

Really, he tries to pay attention to what she’s saying, but it’s unmeasurably difficult. As she continues to ramble, her grin widens impossibly, nearly splitting her face in two, and infectious to the point that he’s pretty sure that her enthusiasm is reflected in his own expression. And he can’t help himself, so on an impulse he leans down, kisses her softly, noting that she tastes like the peach of her chapstick.

Honestly, he’s about to pull away and apologize for cutting her off when he feels her shift, standing on her tiptoes to kiss him more easily (she’s not wearing heels for once), and then there’s an arm around neck to tug him closer, preceded by the quiet thud of something spilling on the worn carpet—presumably _Mr. Mercedes,_ the book she was previously talking about. For the next few minutes, Amy pays no mind to their present location, and it isn’t until he’s got her pressed up against the row of books by authors La–Lo that she seems to snap out of it and breaks away, slides her palms flat on his chest to create the smallest amount of distance.

With her eyebrows knit together and her cheeks flushed, she looks almost as flustered as the time Holt caught her trying on his captain’s hat, and Jake finds it wildly adorable. She furiously scans the area around them, searching for any minute sign of a witness. He half-expects an ancient librarian with beaded glasses to pop up around the bookshelf and hiss at them.

She bites at the pink of her bottom lip. “I’ve never kissed anyone in a library.”

“Always worried someone was gonna catch you, Miss _Most Likely to Succeed?_ ” His voice is teasing, and she rolls her eyes half-heartedly.

Instead of responding though, she glances over her shoulder surreptitiously, then brings her left hand to cup his cheek, her fingers grazing against the skin there. She presses her lips, slow, to the corner of his mouth. Pulls back. And quietly, softly: “No, just never had the chance.”

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you think in the comments!!! i never post multi-chaptered things that aren't unrelated drabbles, so i'd really like your feedback!! hit me up at [dmigod](http://dmigod.tumblr.com) on my tumblr!


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